Upon his father"s knee Still Charley kept his place, And very thoughtfully He looked up in his face.
REMEMBER THE SLAVE.
Mother! whene"er around your child You clasp your arms in love, And when, with grateful joy, you raise Your eyes to G.o.d above,
Think of the negro mother, when Her child is torn away, Sold for a little slave,--O, then For that poor mother pray!
Father! whene"er your happy boys You look upon with pride, And pray to see them when you"re old, All blooming by your side,
Think of that father"s withered heart, The father of a slave, Who asks a pitying G.o.d to give His little son a grave.
Brothers and sisters! who with joy Meet round the social hearth, And talk of home and happy days, And laugh in careless mirth,
Remember, too, the poor young slave, Who never felt your joy, Who, early old, has never known The bliss to be a boy.
Ye Christians! ministers of Him Who came to make men free, When, at the Almighty Maker"s throne, You bend the suppliant knee,
From the deep fountains of your soul Then let your prayers ascend For the poor slave, who hardly knows That G.o.d is still his friend.
Let all who know that G.o.d is just, That Jesus came to save, Unite in the most holy cause Of the forsaken slave.
HOME-SICKNESS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
Were I a wild, wild falcon, I"d soar away on high, And seek my father"s dwelling, Beyond the far blue sky.
Against that well-known door then I"d flap my wings with joy; My mother from the window Sees and admits her boy.
"Dear son!" she"d say; "O, welcome!
How often has my heart Longed sadly to embrace thee; Now here behold thou art!"
Thus memory still is dreaming Of what can never be.
My long-lost home,--the loved ones,-- These eyes may never see.
HAPPINESS.
What is it makes the morning bright?
What gilds the evening hours?
What makes our hearts seem gay and light, As if we trod on flowers?
"Tis innocence that makes us gay, Bids flowers grow everywhere; Makes it bright sunshine every day.
And every evening fair.
What makes us, when we look above, See smiling angels there, And think they look on us in love, As if we were their care?
"Tis that the soul, all free from sin, Glows like an inward sun; And heaven above and heaven within Do meet and join in one.
CHILDREN IN SLAVERY.
When children play the livelong day, Like birds and b.u.t.terflies, As free and gay sport life away, And know not care nor sighs;
Then earth and air seem fresh and fair, All peace below, above; Life"s flowers are there, and everywhere Is innocence and love.
When children pray with fear all day, A blight must be at hand; Then joys decay, and birds of prey Are hovering o"er the land.
When young hearts weep as they go to sleep, Then all the world seems sad; The flesh must creep, and woes are deep, When children are not glad.
TO GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
How like the morning flower ye are!
Which lifts its diamond head, Exulting in the mead; But the rude wind shall steal its gem, Shall break its tender stem, And leave it dead.
Frail pledges of the contrite heart, Wherefore so soon decay?
O, yet prolong your stay!
Until my soul shall boldly rise, And claim its native skies, Haste not away.
THANKS FOR A PLEASANT DAY.
Come, let us all, with heart and voice, To G.o.d our Father sing and pray; In his unceasing love rejoice, And thank him for this pleasant day.
The clear blue sky looks full of love; Let all our selfish pa.s.sions cease!
O, let us lift our thoughts above, Where all is brightness, goodness, peace.
If we have done a brother wrong, O, let us seek to be forgiven; Nor let one discord spoil the song Our hearts would raise this day to heaven.
This blessed day, when the pure air Is full of sweetness, full of joy,-- When all around is calm and fair,-- Shall we the harmony destroy?
O, may it be our earnest care To free our souls from every sin; Then will each day be bright and fair, For G.o.d"s pure sunshine dwells within.
TO A b.u.t.tERFLY.
[Those who are acquainted with this little poem, translated from Herder, will perceive that a slight liberty has been taken with the last two lines.]
Airy, lovely, heavenly thing!
b.u.t.terfly with quivering wing!
Hovering in thy transient hour Over every bush and flower, Feasting upon flowers and dew, Thyself a brilliant blossom, too!
Who, with skilful fingers fine, Purpled o"er those wings of thine?
Was it some sylph whose tender care Spangled thy robes so fine and fair, And wove them of the morning air?
I feel thy little throbbing heart; Thou fear"st e"en now death"s bitter smart.
Fly, little spirit, fly away!
Be free and joyful thy short day!